


The Boy Who Lived, and Fuck the Odds

by ShannonXL



Series: Phoenix/Mockingjay [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's name is chosen. He has no illusions about his ability to win. He's not a killer.</p><p>So why won't the Tribute from District One leave him alone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy Who Lived, and Fuck the Odds

 

When Dolores Umbridge calls his name, Harry doesn’t flinch. He walks up to the stage, head held high, holding his death sentence on his shoulders like a shroud. Susan Bones is already standing on the stage, looking more resolute than Harry would have expected of her. A shy girl, and quiet. They’d been the same year at school, before he dropped out to work in the mines. That’s all he remembers. She offers him a weary smile when he stands by her side, and he returns it. There’s nothing to say.

Dolores takes his hand, raising it above his head, as if there’s something to be excited about. One of her gaudy pink rings pinches Harry’s skin, and he grits his teeth, thinking of the cameras. 

“Happy Hunger Games!” Her gleeful giggle is met with begrudging applause. 

 

Hermione is the only one that comes to send him off. 

He’s not surprised. She’s the closest thing he has to family now. Ron will be on his way back to the mines. With so many mouths to feed, he can’t afford not to, not even to say goodbye. He’s got one more year before he’s safe for good. Which just leaves Ginny. 

Hermione wraps her arms around him.

“I’m so sorry Harry.”

He hugs her back, trying to remember what this feels like.

“Stick with the Weasleys. Take care of each other.”

She nods, wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye. She’s trying to be brave about it, and Harry thinks uncharitably that she looks relieved that she’s not going with him. He doesn’t say so out loud, doesn’t want to make this moment more bitter than it already is. Some part of him is grateful, too. He doesn’t want to have to kill her. 

He doesn’t want to kill Susan Bones either. But at least he doesn’t know her. Didn’t sleep in an abandoned tool shed with her, huddled together for warmth. He didn’t learn to hunt with Susan Bones. He didn’t build snares with her. Didn’t watch her put all her cleverness to good use; didn’t watch her become ruthless and cunning. 

He doesn’t want to kill anyone.

“Stay safe, Hermione. Stay alive. Don’t take out any more tesserae unless you have to. You’ve only got one more year.”

She nods.

“I really thought we were all going to make it. After Fred got picked-“

“I know.” He squeezes her hand. “Just one more year.”

She squeezes back.

“I’ll watch out for Ginny.”

He takes a deep breath.

“You’ll all be all right.”

Her tears bubble over again, and this time, she doesn’t wipe them away.

“We’ll all be all right.”

It’s a promise he knows she can’t keep. But he needs to hear it, because he can’t leave them behind if he doesn’t believe it. 

 

He watches the footage of the other reapings, mostly because there’s not much else to do. The clothes they provided him feel wrong, the fabric too smooth, the blend too lightweight. He’s got a wardrobe full of clothing, and none of it has any practical use. They’re not warm, or durable. They won’t keep him alive in the winter, or unharmed in the mines. They just make him feel naked. 

Susan sits across from him, clearly ill at ease surrounded by all this luxury. Dolores does nothing to help them relax. She prattles on about the strengths and weaknesses of Tributes form the other Districts, the political status of the boy from One, as if he isn’t just another smug career out for blood. Umbridge is clearly excited, but Harry can’t muster the energy to shut her down. He lets her carry on, and she fills in all the blanks in the conversation for him. 

Beside him, Remus Lupin winks conspiratorially.

“She’ll tire herself out eventually. She always does.”

Harry shrugs. He’s not sure what to make of Remus. He looks haggard and wan, nothing like any of the other victors. Harry’s never paid much attention to the games, preferring not to dwell on them when at all possible. Now, he wonders how Remus won. It’s not something anyone talks about. 

“I think our Tributes might need some rest, Dolores. Goodness knows you’ve got a busy schedule planned for them.”

Susan looks grateful for the escape. Dolores looks perturbed.

“I suppose you’re right,” the smile she plasters on looks rather painful, but Harry can’t be bothered to care. Lupin pats him on the shoulder with his gloved hand a wishes him a good night.

 

Harry almost makes himself sick at breakfast the next morning. He’s never seen so much food in his life, and he doesn’t realize until it’s too late that he’s actually eaten until he’s full. He’s not sure he remembers what being full feels like. 

Remus watches him with amusement, while Dolores is visibly recoiling at what Harry assumes must be his appalling table manners. 

“Ahem.” She has to say it a few more times before he’s willing to put his fork down.

“We should discuss your itinerary, Mister Potter.”

“I’m sure they’re both well aware of the protocol once they reach the Capitol.” Lupin reaches for a glass of water. He’s barely touched the food.

“They need to be ready for the cameras, Remus-“

“Are you not hungry?” Harry gestures at the table. “You haven’t really eaten anything.”

Remus smiles, betraying nothing.

“I’m quite all right, Harry. But please, take as much as you’d like.”

Across the table, Dolores is trying not to glare.

“As a _team_ , we must all be fully prepared for our entrance to the Capitol. We need to decide on a strategy.”

Harry already knows what his strategy is. He doesn’t have any illusions about winning. But he looks across the table at Susan, pale, fragile-looking Susan. He’d like to spare her the worst of it, if he can. 

He might not be able to win. But he can protect her. He can die doing something.

“I don’t think we should make a fuss.” He looks at everyone at the table. “We don’t look like much. But I can shoot. And I can make decent traps.” He glances at Susan, but if she has something to add, she’s keeping it to herself. “I don’t think either of us are going to be any good in close quarters. But maybe if westay under everyone’s radar, we can get out of the Cornucopia, and take everyone by surprise later.”

Remus is watching him carefully.

“I think that’s a very good plan, Harry.”

Harry shrugs.

“I haven’t thought about it much.”

Lupin pats him on the shoulder, still wearing the gloves Harry had noticed earlier.

“I think it’s very clever.”

Dolores claps her hands.

“Excellent, we have a plan!”

 

Harry endures the remake session, knowing that the prep team is supposed to be helping him, even if they are unpleasant. He reaches the opening ceremonies having been poked, prodded, shaved, scrubbed, and tweezed to within an inch of his life. The outfits he and Susan have been given are simple; black and heavy, with a bit of black make up around his cheeks and forehead to give him ‘the illusion of coal’, or something like that. Looking at his reflection Harry just thinks it makes him look dead.

He supposes it’s not wrong. 

The other Tributes are dressed more flamboyantly. He’s worried the dark clothing will make them stick out, but he decides it’s dull and perhaps forgettable enough that it won’t matter too much. 

Across the stables, he sees another figure dressed all in black, and for a moment he assumes it’s Remus, dressed to match the Tributes he’s mentoring, before he notices the slicked-back black hair and the scowl donning the man’s face.

Harry recognizes Severus Snape a moment before it’s too late to look away and pretend he wasn’t staring. 

The man saunters over to him, looking oily and smug. He’s not much taller than Harry, but he still manages to look down his nose at him, glaring as if Harry’s a speck of dirt on the ground. 

“Potter.”

“I’m surprised you even remember the name,” he spits.

“Don’t be so hot-headed, boy.” Severus sneers. “It’s what got your father, in the end.”

Harry wants to tear the man apart, and damn the plan and everyone else around him, but he sees Susan out of the corner of his eye, and backs away. 

“Keep away from me, you bastard.” 

Severus sneers.

“I would have thought your mother had taught you not to address your betters in such a fashion.”

“Piss off!” Harry snarls, rejoining Susan by their chariot. She peeks at him nervously, but he’s too angry to explain. 

 

Rita Skeeter fawns over the careers, like she does every year, her favoritism clearly showing. The boy from One is petite, but Harry can tell he’s got a wiry strength about him, and he manages to charm Rita, flirting shamelessly. Most of the careers are big and brutish, but she still manages to make them sound clever enough, even while they’re gloating about their desire to disembowel their fellow Tributes. Susan shudders listening to them, and Harry holds her hand, trying to look stoic but forgettable. 

Lupin, of course, had coached them for the interviews. Susan does well. Rita is pleasant enough to her. She figures out early on in the interview to work the orphan angle. She asks about the accident in the mines that took what remained of Susan’s family, and coos sadly at the appropriate moments. It’s a decent, if forgettable interview.

Lupin gives Harry’s shoulder a squeeze while he waits in the wings.

“Calm. Don’t forget. They just want to feel sorry for you. Let them.”

Harry nods. 

He sits down. Rita smiles at him, and she seems friendly enough, but Harry knows he won't find any friends here.

“So, Harry.”

The warm-up questions fly past him. He forgets his answers as soon as he gives them, the way she smiles puts him on edge.

“Now. Do you think you’ll do your father proud, in the Games?”

He feels himself go cold. 

In the Districts, he’s sure they’re playing the clips. He can practically see them himself, they’ve been broadcast so many times. James Potter, being chosen in the reaping, while Lily, her stomach barely showing, crying out from the crowd before she faints. James on stage, the same stage where Harry sits now, promising to come home to Lily and their son, shocking the audience with the scandalous secret. Harry blinks, and he doesn’t think he’s answered the question. 

Rita’s voice sounds shallow by his side.

“He was your age, wasn’t he?”

The words echo in his mind, and they don’t sound like an innocent coincidence.

Harry looks out at the audience, wondering if President Riddle is watching.

“He was. He was my age exactly. Such an awful tragedy, wasn’t it?” He looks at Rita, grinning miserably. “Everyone back home says my mother died of grief. I wouldn’t know. I was only a baby.”

The interviews wraps up a moment later. Rita wishes him luck, and he can’t help but think that she doesn’t really mean it. 

 

Susan doesn’t seem very interested in training, and Harry doesn’t blame her. He knows he’s probably going to have to, but he doesn't want to kill anyone, and he doesn’t like the idea of preparing for it. So, Harry spends most of the time in training ignoring the other Tributes. He doesn’t want to make any allies. He sizes them up from a distance, keeping a tally of their abilities while he fastidiously hides his own. He doesn’t pick up a bow in front of any of them. 

He’s at the station dedicated to traps, practicing some of his snares, when the boy from One saunters up to him.

Harry feels his presence behind him, and pretends not to notice. The boy doesn’t touch the snares, merely watches. 

“My name is Draco. Malfoy.”

Harry turns, but doesn’t take the offered handshake.

“Harry Potter.”

The boy smirks.

“I know.”

Harry scowls.

“Something funny about that?”

The boy, Draco, crouches beside him.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“From your sniveling coward of a mentor I’m sure.”

Draco grimaces.

“Hardly. Did you know they almost cancelled the Games because of you?”

Harry closes his eyes.

“I’d heard, yes.”

Draco suddenly grabs his wrist, looking at him with deep, gray eyes.

“President Riddle _hates_ you. If you’re smart, you’ll team up.”

“Let go.”

Draco doesn’t.

“You won’t survive if you’re on your own. He’ll make sure you’re killed right at the beginning. But if you’re with a team, people will notice you. They’ll be rooting for you. Team up with me.”

Harry tugs his arm away.

“So you can stab me in the back later? No thanks.”

Draco doesn’t move.

“I won’t.”

Harry glares.

“What’s in it for you, then? There can only be one victor. Unless you’d forgotten the rules?”

Draco shakes his head, looking around cautiously. No one’s listening, it doesn’t even seem like anyone’s noticed them talking. Still, Harry can’t help but feel on edge. They’re not even in the arena yet, and he already feels like he’s fighting for his life. 

“I haven’t forgotten the rules, Harry. I’m just playing a different kind of game.”

 

Severus is in their suite with Lupin when Harry storms in, the sound of Dolores’ sniping protests trailing in his wake. 

“Get out!” He snarls. 

Sneering, Severus strides past him.

“Until later, Remus.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and Harry feels his rage boiling over. 

“What was _he_ doing here?!”

Remus stands, holdings his hands up in surrender.

“Calm down Harry. It’s not what you think.”

“He is the _enemy_. Or had you forgotten? He’s sponsoring people who are going to _kill me_.”

Remus nods.

“I hadn’t forgotten, Harry.”

“Then why the _fuck_ was he here?!”

Behind him, Dolores clucks her tongue.

“Language, Mister Potter-”

He spins, snarling at her.

“Get _out_!”

Behind him, Remus sighs.

“Leave us be. Harry and I should talk.”

Muttering unkindly, Dolores departs, the door snapping spitefully behind her. Harry, his anger still sizzling, glowers at Remus as he pours himself a glass of water, dragging out a chair at the ornate dining table.

“Sit.”

“I’d rather stand.”

Nodding, Remus takes the seat across from the one he’d left for Harry.

“Fair enough. You asked what Severus was doing here. You’re aware that the victors see one another every year?”

Harry doesn’t know how to respond, so he merely nods curtly. Lupin takes a ponderous sip of water before leaning back and picking at his gloves.

“He won the year before I did. We’ve grown to know each other a little. He’s been helping me with a difficult matter.”

Harry scowls.

“And in exchange? You’ve been selling out your Tributes to give his better odds?”

Remus gives him a sad look.

“Harry. Despite your experiences, not everything has a price.”

“Everything has a price.” Harry hisses. “You just don’t know what his is yet.”

Not disagreeing, Remus begins tugging at the fingers of his gloves.

“You’ve heard a lot about your father’s games, Harry. Did you ever discover how I managed to win mine?”

Harry tenses, watching Remus’ hands.

“No.”

Remus tugs away one glove, revealing coarse, silvery skin underneath he fabric. His fingernails are long and sharp, claw-like and deadly-looking. Remus flexes his fingers, and the joints crunch and groan.

“I was never very strong. So when the games began, I hid. I managed to avoid most of the pitfalls in the arena, but after a few days, the games weren’t exciting enough. So the game masters released a toxin from the Cornucopia. Can you guess what it did?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Kill people, probably. That’s what the Games are about.”

Remus nods.

“Most of the other Tributes did die. The chemicals altered our bodies, changing us into muttations. I was the only one who didn’t fight the change. Instead, I fought the others.” Remus gives Harry a hard stare, replacing his gloves. “Severus has concocted an antidote. Nothing can be done for my body, but it keeps my mind intact. I assume you would prefer to be mentored by a man rather than an animal?”

Shuddering, Harry nods.

 

He stays up all night, watching the games. 

He has access to everything, an entire archive of seventy-four years of hunger games at his disposal. He watches Remus, a scrawny boy of seventeen, picked in the reaping. He sees the boy transforming into a monster when the gas is released in the arena. Watches him grow claws and sharp teeth, disemboweling his fellow Tributes without a shred of remorse. 

After, he can’t help but watch others. Newt Scamander, from Eleven, vicious with a trident. Bellatrix Lestrange, from Two, the career who tortured the other Tributes before killing them. He even watches the games from two years ago, the one when Fred Weasley died. He skips the year Severus won. He’s seen it enough times already. 

Susan joins him in the early hours of the morning. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask him if he couldn’t sleep, or if he’s been strategizing. She knows better, he supposes. 

“Dolores isn’t up yet?”

“We have about an hour.” She shrugs. “I looked at her itinerary.”

Harry turns off the screen. 

“Do you know what you’re doing for the Gamemakers’ assessment?”

“Nothing.”

He stares at her.

“I’m not buying into it. Any of it. I know I’m not going to win, I’m not stupid. And even if I could… I don’t want to do what I know I’d have to do to win.”

He cringes.

“You might not have to.”

She glares.

“You’ve spent the entire night watching old games. Don’t treat me like I’m too fragile to understand. I know I’m going to die. The question is whether I’m going to do it on their terms, or my own.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he sits in silence until Dolores invites them to breakfast. 

 

Draco bothers him again while they’re waiting for their turn to show the Gamemakers what they can do. Susan twitches nervously when she notices him approaching, but Harry ignores the tingling anxiety in his next and shoulders and does his best to pretend that the Tribute from One doesn’t exist. 

He sits across from Harry, arms clasped behind his head, a smug grin plastered onto his sharp features. 

“Your opportunity to show off is finally here, Twelve.”

Harry scowls.

“Piss off.”

Draco doesn’t; instead he leans on the table, getting as close as he can to Harry’s face. 

“President Riddle’s going to be there. Isn’t there something you’d like to say to him?”

Harry closes his eyes.

“Don’t you have some Career friends to discuss the merits of dismembering with?”

Draco wrinkles his nose.

“Thanks but no. I’m not exactly welcome at home anymore.” He glances at the door, as if he can see the Gamemakers behind it. “I doubt he even remembers me.” His heavy gaze rests on Harry once again, and this time, it’s not filtered by smugness or bravado. “But he’ll know who you are.”

Harry shakes his head.

“Why would he care? I’m not important. The only thing I am to them is another tragedy to fawn over.”

Draco cocks his head.

“You really think that’s all you are. You’re a little thick.”

Draco is called before Harry can ask what he means; as the boy from District One, he has the dubious honor of going first. 

He shakes his head. It’s just mind games, all of it. Draco is a career, he’s from District One. In just a few more hours, they’ll be out for one another’s blood. 

The other Tributes trickle in gradually, until Harry and Susan are alone. She reaches across the table, squeezing his hand.

“Good luck.”

He nods, squeezing back, before his name is called.

He can hear drunken laughter before he makes it all the way inside, the clatter of dishes echoing in the large room. Harry eyes the Gamemakers, but none of them seem to be looking at him. He heads for the bows, notching an arrow. 

He strikes his target, a perfect bullseye. Again, he glances at the Gamemakers. 

Draco was right; President Riddle is there. He and he alone is watching Harry intently. Most of the Gamemakers have indulged in a ridiculous degree of body modification; their hair and clothing is a flamboyant, multicolored blur. Riddle wears muted colors. At first glance it appears there’s nothing unusual about him. Then he blinks, and his eyelids close sideways, not up and down, and when the light hits him just right, Harry can see that his irises are the shade of dried blood. 

He almost wants to be afraid. After all, even if Draco had been toying with him earlier, this man surely wants him dead. You don’t preside over the Hunger Games because you want the Tributes to live. The victor at the end just gives the Games a purpose, wrapping up the bloodshed in a neat little package, one you can dress up and take on tours. 

Harry hates him.

He’s never had the luxury of thinking about it before. He’s spent his entire life starving and scrounging and trying to stay alive. He’s got coal dust in his lungs from his days in the mines, and a scar on his forehead from a Peacekeeper’s lash. He’s been to preoccupied with keeping himself alive to wonder who might be responsible for everything that’s been slowly killing him. 

He looks at Riddle. He bows, mocking him, not breaking his gaze. 

Then he spins, grabbing the first weapon he can, a spear. He swings his arm, throwing it in a perfect arc. 

He spears the apple in the mouth of the roasted pig to Riddle’s right, catapulting it into the wall behind him. 

“My parents didn’t teach me any table manners.”

He shrugs, and then departs, without being excused.

 

He watches the scores, without expecting much.

Draco, unsurprisingly, does well, with a ten. Lupin raises an eyebrow at Harry.

“I heard Draco wanted you for an ally.”

Harry shakes his head.

“He’s sneaky. I don’t trust him.”

Lupin nods.

“A wise position. But you don’t have to trust him to benefit from a relationship with him in the arena.”

Harry glares at the screen, keeping his opinions to himself. 

He’s surprised when he sees himself on the screen, with an eleven, and pleased with Dolores’ scandalized expression when he explains what happened. 

Susan’s four is a bit worrisome, though.

“You really did nothing?”

She shrugs.

“I made a stink bomb using the supplies from the camouflage station. Yours was a tough act to follow.”

Harry snickers.

“I hope we ruined their appetites.”

Dolores glares at him. 

“Do you think this is all a game, Mister Potter?”

He shrugs, echoing Draco’s words before he can stop himself.

“The Capitol brought me here to play their game. I’m just playing a different set of rules.”

 

Remus comes to wake him, but Harry’s already wide-eyed. They eat breakfast in silence, knowing too well it might be the last meal either of them have. Too soon it’s time to leave. He offers Susan a brief farewell, but it doesn’t seem like she hears him. 

His arm is still sore from the tracker. The silence is asphyxiating. His stylist, Gilderoy, fawns over him while he waits, bemoaning Harry’s dense black hair, until Harry slaps his hands away. He can’t find it in himself to be patient with this man. His teeth chatter, and he tries to calm down, knowing he’s minutes from the cameras and the other Tributes. Both will be watching him closely, looking for any sign of weakness. 

When it’s time, he stands on the platform, and it rises. He closes his eyes, savoring one last moment by himself. Knowing he won’t be alone, really alone again for the short remainder of his life.

He opens his eyes just before he’s elevated into the arena. The countdown blares, and he does his best to quickly take in his surroundings. Twenty seconds. He’s surrounded by trees, and it’s cold. He spies Susan on the opposite side of the circle of Tributes and nods at her. Ten seconds. He’s not sure how he’s going to get to her without running through the Cornucopia, and he’s trying to figure out who best to go around the circle when she moves. 

It’s so simple. A middle finger, raised to the sky, where surely she knows there are hundreds of cameras buzzing around them, watching their every move. Five seconds. She smiles. The other Tributes have noticed, and none of them are sure what to make of it. Two seconds. Just before the time is up, she steps off the platform. 

The explosion is so jarring, it disrupts the commencement of the games. For a few seconds, no one moves. Harry feels rooted to the spot, not sure what to do, since his only plan has just blown herself to pieces, as concisely and definitively as possible. All he can think is that she did get to die on her own terms. And the entire world had to see it. 

A pale figure moves in Harry’s periphery, and he realizes that not everyone was surprised by Susan’s final act of defiance. He tenses, looking now for weapons, not prepared to merely wait for an attack to come. He lunges, grabbing the first satchel he sees, and then Draco is coming right at him, a long, curved blade in his hand. Harry holds his satchel like a shield, but Draco doesn’t attack him. He reaches for him with the hand not occupied with the scythe, grabbing his arm and hoisting him up. 

“Run!”

 

Harry doesn’t keep track of time. He just runs, keeping up with Draco, his petite frame belying a capable, enduring strength, just as Harry suspected. They run from the Cornucopia at breakneck speed, slowing to an even jog when they begin to get winded. The terrain is uneven, hilly, with jagged stones peeking out of treacherous crests. Tree roots lie in a tangle on the ground, presenting subtle hazards. 

Harry stops them when they reach water. 

“Wait.”

He presses a finger to his lips, listening for signs that they’ve been followed. Draco follows suit, and Harry surreptitiously watches the blade in his hand as well. 

Of course, Draco notices.

“Still don’t trust me, Twelve?”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him.

“Should I?”

Draco smirks, but shakes his head.

“Probably not. But you’re here, aren’t you?”

Harry shrugs.

“I didn’t have much choice.”

Draco nods.

“Truce then? For now?”

Harry eyes the hand Draco is offering, knowing that if he takes it, he’s opening up his body to attack. Draco rolls his eyes, dropping the blade between their feet.

“There. Happy now?”

Harry grins, taking Draco’s hand.

“Never.”

Draco’s handshake is firm. 

“Let’s find out what you’ve got in your bag bag of goodies, shall we?”

 

They have rope. They have a thermos and iodine, so they can drink the water. Just one blanket, but it’s lined to keep in heat, and the outside looks waterproof. 

No flint or matches, but they weren’t going to be starting any fires tonight anyway. 

They climb one of the denser trees just as the music starts to play. Projected in the sky are the faces of the fallen Tributes. None of the Careers are dead, but that’s not a surprise. The boys from Three and Four are gone. Both of the Tributes from Five are, and the girl from Eleven. Susan is last, and Harry can’t help but think that it’s a little begrudging. He holds his three middle fingers to his lips, before presenting them to the sky, in her honor. 

Draco watches him, fascinated.

“Did you know her well?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Not at all.”

Draco’s brow furrows.

“But you were willing to die for her.”

Harry glances at him, but Draco doesn’t look like he’s toying with him; he looks pensive.

“I figured out your plan fairly quickly. The way you acted around her, shielding her from the others. Pretending you were both weaker than you are to stay under the radar. You were going to defend her, even though she wasn’t going to win.”

Harry shrugs.

“I didn’t want her to suffer. It’s as simple as that.”

Draco shakes his head.

“I don’t understand. You could have tried to win. You’re strong. And according to some, you have _very_ good aim.”

Harry nearly falls out of the tree. There’s no way Draco can know about what happened in front of the Gamemakers. But Draco merely taps his nose twice, winking. 

“A friend told me. Gossip travels fast in the Capitol.”

Harry starts to ask more, but Draco hushes him.

“Get some rest. We’ll need to come up with a plan tomorrow.”

 

Harry hears them just in time; Draco is halfway back up the tree when the Careers come crashing through the trees, chasing the girl from Seven. Harry watches, perched precariously on one of the branches. He doesn’t realize how far out he is until he feels Draco pulling him back.

“ _Don’t_!” He hisses. “You’ll give us away.”

Harry tries to shake him off, but Draco’s grasp is firm.“They’re going to kill her!” His voice is a frantic whisper.

Draco shakes him.

“That’s the _point_! Don’t be an idiot!”

Before he can get free, he hears a terrified scream, followed by the sounds of laughter. Harry shudders as the sounds fade away, sagging in Draco’s arms. 

“Take a deep breath, Harry. It’s over.”

Harry shakes his head. as the cannon goes off, signaling the girl’s death. 

“It’s really, really not.”

 

They climb down from the tree when they’re sure the Careers have gone. He wouldn’t think he’d still have an appetite, but Harry’s stomach growls. He hasn’t seen anything, animal or vegetable, that he thinks will be safe to eat. He glances at Draco, and he can tell he feels the same way. 

“Can you hunt?”

Draco shrugs.

“There wasn’t much to hunt in my District. I’m better at close quarters combat.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Very useful.”

Draco chuckles.

“Why do you think I wanted an ally?”

Harry scoffs, going on ahead, not bothering to check and see if Draco is following. His footsteps are surprisingly quiet, and Harry’s brain eventually catches up with him. He pauses to check and make sure Draco hasn’t drawn his weapon, but it’s resting politely at his side, the sheath looped onto his belt. 

“Need something?”

“I’ll let you know if I need any people slaughtered, thanks.”

Draco laughs, harsh and bitter, lengthening his strides to walk beside Harry.

“I don’t know what you think of me, but I’m not just a Career. I had _plans_ , and none of them involved dying in some filthy arena.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Sure. That’s why you learned hand to hand combat. Because you weren’t planning on ending up here.”

Draco taps his arm ungently.

“Just because I don’t want to be here doesn’t mean it was never a possibility. I intend to survive nonetheless.”

The sound of stone cracking interrupts their argument. Harry looks up the hill to see stone shaking. Silt and small pebbles tumble down at first, but he can tell the large boulders at the top are threatening to break loose. They look heavy enough to take down the trees. Two boys won’t phase them at all. 

“We need to run. Now.”

Beside him, Draco is pale.

“ _Where_?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter. Come on!”

Without thinking, he takes Draco’s hand in his, dragging him through the forest. As a sound like thunder trails in their wake, he can feel Draco’s shock wearing off, and soon he’s keeping pace just fine. 

Unfortunately, so is the rockslide.

Beneath his feet, he can feel the earth moving, tilting at an unnatural angle. He braces himself for the fall he knows is coming, sliding down the ground as gracefully as possible. Jagged stones tear at his clothing, and he can feel his skin being rubbed raw. He hangs on to Draco, his terrified shout punctuating the grinding cacophony that surrounds them. Below, Harry can see a jutting rock that looks like it may be more stable that the churning ground. 

He stumbles, panting, trying to shout over the noise, but his voice gets lost in the rubble flying all around them. Draco, straining to listen, shakes his head, tripping over the falling debris. 

Groaning, Harry half-drags Draco towards the shelter, grabbing on to tree roots to try and hoist them both across. Draco gets to his feet before Harry is able to, and grasps desperately at Harry’s collar, having figured out where he was headed. 

They make it to their goal and hide underneath their makeshift shelter before the rest of the boulders come tumbling down after them. Gasping, Harry tries to block out the sound of rocks cracking and crashing around him. Choking on dust, he tries to breathe, reminding himself that he’s not in the mines, that they’re not collapsing on top of him, that there’s light and air and life close by, that he’s not dying, not yet anyway. 

The sound gradually fades away, and the ground stops shaking, leaving Harry feeling like there’s space echoing in between his bones. 

In the distance, the canon goes off once, twice. 

Beside him, Draco is wavering on his feet. There’s a deep gash on his temple, and blood is trickling down his neck. Absent-minded, Harry wipes some away before it trails into Draco’s eye. Draco grimaces, but he doesn’t bat Harry’s hand away. Harry half-laughs, realizing he’s accidentally spread grime all over Draco’s face.

“We made it.”

“Speak for yourself.” Draco leans one hand against the wall, which brings him just the faintest bit closer to Harry. “I’m so dizzy I think I’m going to be sick.”

Harry’s response is cut off by the sound of voices. Draco’s eyes go wide, and he reaches for the scythe, still miraculously attached to his belt. 

“They must be nearby.”

Harry recognizes the voice, though he’s not sure if it’s Crabbe or Goyle speaking. They were both so similar in their interviews he’s sure he’ll never be able to tell the difference. 

“Quiet. You’ll spook them,” a female voice replies. “I’d like to take my time with dear Draco.”

Their laughter fades away, and Harry can hear their footfalls receding, but the tension in his body doesn’t go away. 

Draco gulps audibly beside him.

“I’ll see if it’s safe.”

Harry nods, leaning back to let Draco go.

He sees Draco stiffen for a moment, before he relaxes.

“It’s safe.”

Harry’s not sure what to make of that. Draco could be leading him into a trap; he could come out and be surrounded by Careers, completely unarmed. He doesn’t like those odds. Then again, Draco could always turn around and kill him. If he has to die, he’d rather not look like a coward.

He peeks outside, on edge, ready for an attack.

It doesn’t come. The landslide has unsettled the terrain, but it was clearly programmed to stop before the boulders tore apart the entire arena. Behind him are uprooted trees, but ahead the forest is untouched. He sees a small figure in the distance, long blond hair stark against the deep green foliage. 

“Draco?”

The other boy materializes by his side.

“Luna, from Three. She won’t bother us.”

Harry gives him a sideways glare.

“Why not?”

Draco rolls his eyes.

“Because she’s bonkers. Didn’t you hear her interview? It was all about mockingjays and phoenixes. She’s delusional.”

Harry shrugs.

“All right then.”

Draco licks his lips.

“You still don’t trust me.”

 

They make camp for the night. The temperature drops significantly, and Harry is grateful for the blanket. They share it, huddled together for warmth, tethered to a thick branch on the tallest tree they could muster the will to climb. Neither of them have eaten. They have enough water to live on, but he can feel himself growing weaker. He knows hunger is just going to lead him into making stupid mistakes, but so far, he hasn’t seen anything he could hunt, and the only berries around are poisonous. 

Music begins to play once again. Three more Tributes dead. Harry sighs, knowing the audience will be hungry for more bloodshed all too soon. The rockslide was meant to bring them out into the open, their close call with the Careers made that all too clear. 

“Draco?”

The other boy grunts.

“We need to do something about the others.”

Draco stretches his legs underneath he blanket, accidentally brushing Harry’s foot in the process. He doesn’t apologize.

“Like what?”

Harry shrugs.

“Did you see any food?”

Draco shakes his head, then stops.

“There was some. At the cornucopia. But they’ve probably got someone guarding it. If they haven’t eaten it already.”

Harry nods.

“They must have. They don’t seem very clever. I expect they would have tried to eat the berries if they didn’t have anything else.”

Draco smirks.

“Right on that. I don’t know the boys, but Pansy’s an idiot. Especially when she’s hungry.”

Harry nods.

“Is she the one that-”

“Yes.” Draco bites his lip. “Yeah. She’s the one you heard earlier.”

“Is she angry that you’re with me?”

Draco laughs bitterly.

“She doesn’t care about you. Well, she might.” He pulls the blanket up under his chin. “I’m sure President Riddle would want to personally thank her for slaughtering you in some painful and imaginative way. But that’s not why she’s after me.”

It doesn’t seem like he’s going to keep going, so Harry prods him in the stomach.

“So? What did you do?”

“ _I_ didn’t do _anything”_ he snarls _._ “I did everything _right_. But my _father_ had to go and piss off the wrong people. So now I’m stuck here, and Pansy will kill me or die trying if she knows what’s good for her. Her reception in the Victors’ Village won’t be very warm if they think she’s too soft.”

Harry shakes his head.

“That’s not right. They picked your name, that was chance.”

Draco stares at him.

“You really believe that. You don’t even know why you’re here, do you?”

Harry leans back as far as he can without falling.

“I had to take out tesserae. My name was in there one extra time every year. The odds were against me.”

Draco rolls his eyes.

“The odds were against you because your name is Harry Potter. Your father died in the games while your mother was carrying you. Now you’re his age, they want to kill you, too. Remind people that no one can escape. That the Capitol has all the power. Sure, they’ll be sad about it, share one collective sigh of grief, and then they’ll move on to the next fad tragedy. Better than letting you live. That would be like letting you fester. Letting you remind people of the tragedy, the unfairness of it. You do look like him, you know.”

Harry grits his teeth.

“So I’ve been told.”

Draco nods.

“So that’s why you’re here. It doesn’t matter how many times your name was entered in the reaping, or how few mine was. Nobody was going to stand up to take my place, or yours. They want to see us bleed.”

“That’s despicable.”

Draco’s eyebrow floats up.

“Careful. One might think you’ve got a rebellious streak in you.”

Harry purses his lips, and Draco laughs.

“Silly. They’re never going to see this in the Districts. There’s a little man behind all those cameras, making sure they see all the gory details, and nothing else true. He’ll edit out all the salacious bits.” Draco struggles to get his hand loose from the blanket, flipping off the sky just as serenely as Susan.

“Hello Plutarch. I sucked your cock and look where it got me.” He scowls. “What more can you do to me now.”

Harry tugs at Draco’s sleeve.

“Stop that. You’re just asking for trouble. They’ll probably light the tree on fire, and me with it.”

Draco snickers, but he bundles himself up again, bringing some of the cold air with him into the blanket as he does so. He snuggles a bit closer to Harry, leeching his warmth. He snorts softly. 

“You’re not going to ask?”

Harry groans.

“About what?”

“If I really did suck his cock.”

“If you really did, I’m sure I don’t want to know about it.”

Draco snorts, and the air falls hot against Harry’s cheek.

“Probably for the best. It wasn’t very impressive.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Thank god there’s nothing to eat. You’ve definitely put me off my appetite. Possibly forever.”

Draco laughs, the sound echoing through their bodies.

“It doesn’t matter. We can die. There will still be a revolution. You starve people long enough, eventually they fight back. They’ll replace this regime with another one. Nothing will change. And we’ll still be dead.”

Harry cringes, waiting for the Gamemakers to exact their revenge, but nothing happens. They’re allowed to sleep through the night. 

 

Harry’s not sure how they managed to muck up their plan so completely, but when he comes to, disoriented and most likely concussed, all he can think is that it must not have been a very good plan to begin with. 

As his vision becomes clearer, he realizes that Draco isn’t with him (and no, he doesn’t want to think about what it means that he’s worried about Draco first). He then realizes that, even though he’s surrounded by the Careers and completely incapable of defending himself, he’s not dead yet. He tries to move, and discovers that his hands have been firmly tied behind his back, and he immediately wishes that he were still unconscious. He blinks, trying to clear his head, cringing when he moves and disturbs an injury to the back of his head. The girl from One, Pansy, he’s pretty sure, leers at him.

“Finally awake?”

He grunts, testing his vocal chords.

“Surprisingly. Yes. Was it you that gave me the bump on my head?”

She snickers in a way that Harry supposes she thinks is cute; he finds it rather off-putting, but he knows he’s a little biased. 

“No. That was Gregory. He’s got a talent for bludgeoning things.”

The boy from Two waves at him menacingly. Harry nods in salute.

“Kudos to Gregory then. Is there a reason I’m…” he tries to gesture, but his hands are tied quite firmly. He assumes the message gets across and keeps on. “Well, this?”

Pansy grins, toying with a sharp-looking blade.

“Your new friend is pretty fast.” Harry doesn’t like the steely glint in her eyes. “It didn’t seem worth it to chase him. Not when I can make him run back.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in, and when they do, Harry has to keep himself from laughing.

“You think Draco’s going to come back for me?! You can’t be serious. That’s a terrible plan. I don’t even think he likes me.”

She considers him, readjusting her grip on the knife.

“Well. There’s one way to find out.” She drags the blade across the underside of his chin, still smiling. “How loud do you think I can make you scream?” She doesn’t cut him, but he holds his breath anyway, knowing one wrong move, even the smallest twitch, could be the end of him. “Loud enough for Draco to hear? I wonder how long you’ll last.”

Harry doesn’t see where the rocks come from, only the aftermath. One of them hits Gregory solidly in the back of the head, and he crumbles, out cold. Pansy spins, expertly wielding the blade in front of her, using Harry as a shield for her back. 

“Come out. Coward.” She spits, her physicality tense.

Draco doesn’t give her time to spot him. He lunges out of nowhere, landing on her and grappling her to the ground. He has one hand around the handle of her blade, keeping the edge away from his skin, but he’s unarmed, and can’t move to attack her without leaving himself vulnerable. Frantically, Harry struggles with his bonds. 

Pansy snarls beneath Draco, spitting and cursing as she tries to break out of his grasp. 

“You bastard! Let go of me!”

Draco glares down at her, not giving her an opening. 

“Bastard, am I? That’s not what you used to call me. But I was useful to you then.” He bares his teeth. “You’ve forgotten who the real enemy is Pansy.”

She gnashes her teeth in frustration.

“You’re a traitor! You’re a filthy traitor! They’ll get you! They’ll get all of you!”

Draco stiffens. Pansy takes advantage, swinging wildly. The ropes uncoil around Harry’s wrists and he lunges, grabbing Pansy’s arm before she can stab Draco. Without thinking, Harry crushes the fragile bones of her wrist and she cries out, dropping the knife. He holds her ruined arm above her head, and she thrashes beneath him. 

Behind him, Harry hears footsteps, but when he glances over his shoulder all he sees is a flash of blond hair disappearing into the shadows of the forest.

Beside him, Draco’s recollected himself. He grabs the knife, holding it to Pansy’s throat. 

“It’s rather touching to know how little you cared.” Before Harry can stop him, he’s plunging the dagger into her throat. Blood bubbles up at the corners of her lips, and she gurgles pitifully as she dies. 

Draco tugs the dagger from her body, wiping it on the sleeve of her jacket. He looks at Harry. He swallows.

“She was going to kill you.”

Harry nods. Draco sighs. The cannon goes off overhead.

“What should we do about him?”

Draco shakes his head. They both know what they _should_ do.

“Take whatever he has. Tie him up and leave him. I’m not killing someone defenseless.” Draco looks up at the sky. “That wouldn’t be a very good show for you, would it?”

Harry helps him stand, still a bit wobbly on his feet, and together they hobble away. 

 

They find a cave that night. It’s cold enough that Harry can see his breath, and the cave offers the best opportunity to stay warm. It’s more vulnerable than the trees, they won’t have any warning if the others try to sneak up on them, and they won’t have anywhere to run. But as Draco points out, there’s no point in freezing to death up on some rotten branch, not when they’ve come this far. No, they’re going to die fighting, one way or another.

They eat some of the provisions Gregory had been carrying, dried meat and nuts, unseasoned, but they’re both hungry enough that it tastes like a feast. 

They save a little, more out of instinct than because either of them thinks the games are going to last much longer. They count the Tributes that night. Luna, miraculously still alive. Gregory, Vincent, and Astoria, who Harry assumes are out for their blood. He’s surprised he’s made it this far. If he’d been allowed to bet on his own odds, he would never have wagered he’d make it down to the final days. 

He glances at Draco, wondering if it’s time to part ways with him. 

The longer they’re together, the less safe it is to trust him. There can only be one winner, after all. 

Draco smirks carefully.

“I’m not going to kill you now. Not when I could have had Pansy do it for me, and save myself the trouble.”

Harry winces.

“Am I that transparent?”

Draco grins, coming closer.

“Definitely.”

He unsheathes the knife, the one he’d used to kill Pansy, and runs the blunt edge against Harry’s cheek. “I’d say I can see right through you.”

Harry gasps at the caress of the cold metal.

“What are you doing?”

Draco leans in.

“I think you want me, Twelve.”

Harry closes his eyes, cursing himself for an idiot. There’s a knife at his throat and all he can concentrate on is that voice, silky and dangerous. The tickle of breath by his ear. The heat pooling in his belly, the flush he can feel rising on his cheeks. He forces his eyes open, and Draco is right there, pupils wide. 

“What are you going to to about it?”

Unblinking, Draco reaches for Harry’s trousers, flicking them open with deft fingers. 

“Are you going to stop me?”

Harry gulps.

“I don’t think so.”

The grin spreading across Draco’s face is nothing short of maniacal. He leans in and kisses Harry’s cheek, right next to the blade.

“They’ll have to watch. They can’t turn the cameras off. Because if my hand slips-”, he demonstrates, drawing a thin line in Harry’s skin. The cut is shallow, and doesn’t bleed. Much. Harry’s breath comes sharp and choppy. His heart is pounding in his ears, and the adrenaline dissolves the stinging pain into something else, something sharper, headier. He licks his lips, and Draco follows the trail of Harry’s tongue with his mouth, devouring him, teeth dragging across his skin. He sucks Harry’s bottom lip, breathing through his nose. His grip on the knife doesn’t falter as Harry pulls him closer, fingers digging into his hips. 

“I want them to see.” Draco pulls back, peppering kisses along Harry’s collarbone. “I want them to know what they’re taking from me.” His lips drag across Harry’s chest as he drags the zipper down with his free hand. “I want them to see me loving you. I want them to see that it’s beautiful.”

Harry doesn’t know whose benefit the words are for, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care. He knows his friends are watching, he knows everyone in Panem is watching. He grasps Draco’s hair roughly, pressing his face closer, craving the indelicate touch of his teeth, the silky caress of his lips. He’s going to die and he doesn’t care what people see anymore. 

“I want them to see my rage, Harry.” His voice is haggard, laden with desire. “I want them to see how angry I am.” He gasps. “I did. _Everything_. They asked me to. And I can’t even have a little fucking _privacy_.”

In a burst of rage or lust, Draco shoves Harry up against the wall of the cave. Pressing the blade against his throat, he goes for Harry’s trousers again, fondling him through the fabric. Harry wraps one leg around Draco, using the pressure of Draco rutting against his hips to keep him upright. He digs his fingernails into Draco’s neck, nipping at his lips, his tongue, at anything he can reach, leaving uneven bites along his chin and neck. 

“Well. They can’t have anything else of mine.” Harry helps Draco open the fastenings of his trousers, sighing in relief as Draco finally plunges his hand inside. “I’m not playing by the rules anymore. I’m going to make everyone in Panem watch me make Harry Potter cum. They can take that and choke on it.”

Harry snorts, and Draco cuts off the sound with his lips. Harry takes it like Draco is water and he’s been dying of thirst, groaning as Draco grips him. His hand moves frantically, and Harry shudders, Draco’s words ringing meaninglessly in his ears. He wraps his arms around him, gripping Draco’s buttocks and dragging his hips against him, encouraging the rutting. Draco moans in response, and Harry swallows the sound. Harry grinds against the hard heat at his inner thigh, and Draco’s fingers stutter around him. 

“Do it, Twelve. Show them what we think of them.”

Harry’s hips jerk without his say-so, and he feels the sticky mess as all of his nerves are set ablaze. Draco continues to rub against him, his voice trickling into faint grunts. Finally, he gasps, his breath catching against Harry’s cheek. The knife clatters to the ground, and Draco strokes his cheek, wiping away the drying blood.

“Sorry.”

Harry snorts.

“No you’re not.”

Draco answers with a mischievous grin.

“You’re right, I’m not even a little bit sorry.”

Harry leans his forehead against Draco’s, smiling.

“I’m not sure whether they’re going to kill us or ask us nicely to do it again.”

Draco raises an eyebrow.

“They probably can’t decide what people want to see more. Which might buy us some time.”

Draco helps Harry put himself back together, before they both settle down underneath the blanket. Harry wraps his arms around Draco’s waist, kissing his cheek. 

“That was probably a Hunger Games first.”

Draco chuckles.

“They’ll have to remember us now.”

Harry smiles, and then feels the smile fade away.

“You didn’t really mean it, did you? When you said you loved me?”

Draco shrugs, not looking at him.

“I probably could. If we had enough time.”

Harry nods.

“I guess we’ll never know then.”

There’s nothing Draco can say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. They fall asleep, huddled together and shivering, and not because of the cold. 

 

Draco slams him into a boulder, and Harry hisses.

They’ve been running, and now that they’ve outrun the fire, leaving Victor and Gregory in the wake of the flames, they’re the only threats to one another left. Luna won’t be a challenge for Draco. And Astoria… well. Harry knows Draco thinks he can take her. So really, he knows he’s the only one standing in between Draco and victory. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. 

Draco snarls, tearing at Harry’s arm. 

“Don’t look sad, lover. You knew all I wanted was to survive.”

Harry chokes, his vision going blurry around the edges, and he realizes it’s Draco’s hand around his neck, and not the smoke hanging in the air, that’s choking him. He feels his knees weakening, and he falls, Draco dragged down on top of him. It’s too late to struggle, but he tries anyway, scratching at Draco’s arms with weak hands. 

“Stop Harry. It’s over.”

 

The Capitol mourns when Harry Potter dies. 

It is exactly as Draco said it would be. They review his footage, and the footage of his parents. They swoon over his bright green eyes, his melancholy backstory, his quiet skill. His is the stuff tragedy porn is made of. 

When Draco dies, they begin to take sides. Vendors sell ‘Team Harry’ and ‘Team Draco’ pins, and they sell out in hours. Gay romance becomes the new trend of the season. Couples are asked which one of them is the Draco in the relationship. Greek and Chic is the new tagline for the most popular perfume in the Capitol, _eau de Drarry_. 

 

_“Stop Harry. It’s over.”_

Draco leans close, and Harry thinks for a moment he’s going to kiss him. He feels blood trickling across his neck, and he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t feel any pain. 

“I think I did love you. I want you to know.”

When Draco leans back, his arm is covered with blood, and Harry still doesn’t understand. 

Draco presses his fingers against Harry’s eyelids, and closes his eyes. 

Harry feels Draco’s weight lifting, and there’s smoke everywhere and he’s trying to breathe, but he’s still so dizzy. He hear’s Draco’s footsteps as he walks away, and the canon echoing above him, and all he can think is that it doesn’t make any sense, because the canon already went off for Vincent and Gregory, and Draco hasn’t gotten to Luna or Astoria yet. And he knows he’s not dead. Dead is nothing. Dead is darkness. Dead can’t hear, or think, can’t feel pain and anger searing its’ flesh like a wound. 

He knows he’s not dead.

_But where did he get all this blood?_

 

Astoria Greengrass is the victor of the 74th Hunger Games. She goes on a victory tour, and her grim, smiling face is the highlight of every screen in Panem. Harry watches her, sipping tea, curled up against Draco, calm only ever in sleep. He sighs at the knock on the door, disentangling himself without rousing Draco.

Luna waits on the other side of the door, the light falling awkwardly over the jagged scar on the left side of her face, her souvenir from the games. 

“Hello Harry. I’m sorry to disturb you. But I thought you’d want to see.” She peeks around his shoulder. “Best wake him, too. He gets very grouchy when he’s not told things straightaway.”

Harry smiles, nodding, and closes the door, to go kiss Draco awake.

A quarter of an hour later, they’re dressed, and waiting in the landing terminal. They’re joined by Severus and Remus, the latter barely containing his excitement. The revolution hasn’t been broadcast all around Panem. It doesn’t need to be. They’ve been gradually stealing citizens from all the Districts, amassing a small army. And in the meantime, the Capitol is going hungry. Harry waits, wrapping an arm around Draco’s waist.

The ship lands, and the last refugees from District Twelve are the first to disembark. 

“This is going to be awkward, isn’t it?”

Harry gives him a light squeeze.

“Does it matter?”

Draco pauses, then shakes his head.

“No. I suppose that’s what I get for turning traitor with you though.”

Smiling, Harry kisses his cheek, and gets ready to greet his friends. 

He’s ready for a revolution. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I kind of forgot that Harry wears glasses and totally can't see without them. So I guess in addition to being a Hunger Games au this is also a Harry-can-see-things au.
> 
> I also feel that the scene in the cave is almost completely OC for both of them. Oh well.
> 
> Also Plutarch was going to be Avery, but I didn't think it was clear enough that he was head Gamemaker.


End file.
